


The Pendragon Madonna

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attraction, Eventual Romance, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-20 06:00:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30000351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: Estate owner Arthur Pendragon needs to sell a valuable family painting to restore his property. Auction house employee Merlin Emrys comes to the rescue.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 103





	The Pendragon Madonna

On the heels of a blunt knock, the solid oaken door opens with its usual creak. Arthur keeps telling the staff to see to it, but the truth is that, in the past few years, it has been reduced, and he doesn't have the heart to press the point with the remaining personnel. Old Morris comes in with a stoop to his shoulders and a slight limp to his step, yet he's in perfect visual trim. With its starched collar, his uniform is rigorously pressed, and his moustache – which reminds Arthur of Neville Chamberlain – is carefully trimmed. Despite his advancing years, Morris has kept himself quite dapper and proper, the epitome of the perfect butler. Having cleared his throat, Morris says, “The art person from London is here, sir, waiting in the small drawing room.”

The sentence is at first glance spare, but Arthur knows how to read the nuance into it. First and foremost, Morris hasn't specified the name of their visitor, nor the institution they come from. That's because the visitor isn't an employee of Sotheby's or Christie's, but of a smaller and, therefore humbler in Morris' opinion, auction house. That, of course, reflects upon the person's worth. Their placement in the small drawing room – which, with its contained dimensions and unfavourable view over a drab stretch of parkland, is generally considered the more modest of their receiving rooms – is but a consequence of their standing. Though Arthur can guess Morris' view of the world, he doesn't make a show of it. It would be like stirring a hornet's nest of deeply entrenched notions that have paradoxically deeply taken root in his butler. Instead, he smiles politely and says, “Will you, please, show our guest in, Morris?”

Morris makes a sign with his head. “Yes, sir.” And he turns to go fetch the 'art person'.

When the individual in question arrives, Arthur is taken aback. He'd been expecting an old fogey of a generation with his father. Not that he thinks disrespectfully of his own parent, but when he heard that Uther had chosen Essetir Auction House as their intermediary because one of his university chums is its managing director, he had felt sure said friend would materialise in all of his septuagenarian glory. In short, he'd been awaiting the arrival of his father's old pal, not that of a personable thirty year old wearing jeans and a cardigan, sporting a messy haircut failing to shadow deep and mysterious blue eyes. 

“Oh,” Arthur says, standing from behind the massive desk that almost splits the study in two. He takes a second or two needlessly readjusting a few objects on its surface, before re-training his gaze towards his guest. “I'm sorry if Morris let you cool your heels in that dusty drawing room for too long.

The man from Essetir claps his bright, assessing eyes on Arthur. His is a frank and easy gaze, yet it shows that its owner isn't easily daunted. “I certainly wasn't bored as I had ample opportunity to study the art decorating your walls.”

Feeling a bit hot under his collar, Arthur has by now bridged the gap between them. It now occurs to him that he hasn't introduced himself. “Arthur Pendragon,” he says, and shakes his guest's warm hand.

“Merlin,” the other says. “Merlin Emrys.”

Arthur questions why his father's friend isn't here in Emrys' stead, for, after all, this is serious business and one would have expected Essetir's MD to have turned up in person, but he doesn't voice his doubts. Not yet. Standing on rank precedence would sound somewhat reactionary. It would be a faux-pas and he doesn't intend to ostracise this auction house employee from the get go. “Please, take a seat, Mr Emrys.”

Arthur goes back to his place behind the desk, his leather high-backed armchair creaking as he moves.

Emrys makes no sign of having noticed, and proceeds to talk shop. “So, Mr Pendragon, let's discuss provenance.”

Arthur nods. He had known that question would be asked. He'd perhaps expected for Mr Emrys to be more circuitous about it, as men from older generations would be, but he's prepared to supply all the information needed. “My ancestor got the painting in Italy, during his grand tour.”

Emrys smiles. “Of course, noblesse oblige.”

Arthur should probably baulk at the stab at his family origins and wealth, but Emrys voices it with dancing eyes and a relaxed body language, an amused openness that somehow isn't offensive at all. “He took it back to England, though not before its previous owner had told him a story about how the canvas was saved from the Bonfire of Vanities three centuries before.”

Emrys raises an eyebrow. “And who was the painting's former owner?”

Arthur opens one of his desk drawers and extracts a folder, which constitutes proof of provenance. Before becoming a part of this file, the documents inside it had spent the best part of the last century in a safe. “A family called Alamanni, Florentine patricians who commissioned the work itself. They kept it in the family as long as they could, but eventually sold their treasure to my ancestor because their circumstances had become straightened.”

“And so your father thinks you're actually sitting on a Leonardo.” Emrys' expression is still amused, but he's interested. That shows.

“It's possible, isn't it?” Time and again, Arthur has told himself not to get too excited by the notion, not to build castles in the air. But the possibility fires him, and not just because that would save the family estate. Because if his father was right, then has a treasure on his hands the world doesn't know about. And that's simply momentous. It's like a grand adventure, a journey of discovery through art history. “According to the Alamanni, the painting was commissioned in 1473 and was delivered in, and I quote, a timely fashion.”

“Leonardo's first dated work goes back to 1472,” Emrys says, “but it's not a lot to go on, when it comes to your painting.”

“That's not the only feature that makes us think it might be.” Uther schooled Arthur in this a long time ago. The first time Arthur had been allowed a close look was when he was all of twelve. At first, he hadn't been particularly impressed, but, as time went by, he found himself going to have a peek at the Pendragon Madonna more and more frequently. Every time he came back from boarding school, he paid the painting a visit. He went up the stairs, let a moment elapse, pulled back the curtains protecting it, and stared and stared. “There are traits that suggest that may be the case.” His father had a library full of art books that proved his point and he'd entertained experts on the subject all his life long. “But you'll see that for yourself.”

“I'm looking forward to that.” Emrys eyes shine now excitedly. He has inched forward in his chair and it looks as though he's raring to stand up to go examine the painting. “But I also want to caution you. Your canvas being an undiscovered Leonardo... it's unlikely.”

“I realise that.” Arthur had told himself repeatedly not to go overboard with his imagination, his daydreaming and expectations.

“And the fact that your father is friends with Gaius won't affect my evaluation.”

“I would never presume it to.” While Arthur acknowledges that his father may have entertained this thought, he is a different person, with different sensibilities. Uther belongs to a different generation and believes that building connections means obtaining favours from one's acquaintances. “I just want you to evaluate the painting, as is.”

Emrys' gaze cuts into Arthur. “Well, let's go see this marvel of yours.”

Arthur leads the way up the stairs, along the gallery overlooking the hall and along a carpeted corridor leading into the east wing. The floor creaks under them, dust motes hang in the air, and cobwebs hide in niches and in corners of the ceiling. Arthur wants to apologise about those aspects, the house not being what it once had been, but Emrys doesn't seem to notice these upkeep failures. He rather stops whenever he catches sight of a feature he finds interesting, be it a gouache, a statue or an architectural embellishment.

“You're sitting on a treasure trove,” Emrys says, as he scrutinises his surroundings, a pleased moue defining his face. “It must be like living in a museum.”

“It's not what it used to be.” When Arthur was a child, the maintenance had been better, as Uther's own health had been. But their deficiencies when it comes to repairs are more of a historical problem and not necessarily tied to Uther's ability to look after things. “Bits and pieces were alienated when death duties increased as the twentieth century progressed. My great-great grandfather sold acres of land and part of his collection, his Meissen too.”

“Ah yes, the plight of the aristocracy.” Emrys stops before one of the paintings that hangs further down in the east corridor. “Is that a Noci?”

“Ah, yes, it is.” Arthur smiles at the woman portrayed in the painting. “That was my great grandmother. She happened to be in New York at the time and met Noci, who agreed to take her likeness.”

“I bet he agreed because she was a red-head.” Emrys looks at Arthur's ancestor with admiration gleaming in his eyes. “He loved read-heads.”

“Probably.” Arthur's gaze settles on Emrys as he, in turn, gazes at the painting. “I have it on good authority she was quite stubborn and that she pestered him until he relented and took her likeness.”

“That's quite the family anecdote you have there.” Emrys grins and it's quite contagious.

So as not to linger on the thrilling effect of that grin, Arthur shepherds him onwards and into the Madonna room. Though daylight is still washing in, he turns on the lights. Since natural illumination doesn't come to much in this part of the building, it's better to make the most of the artificial sort. Then he goes to the painting and draws the curtains that cover it.

As if be-spelled, Emrys moves towards the painting, eyes lit up with passion and wonder.

Arthur knows what Emrys is experiencing. It's the same feeling Arthur has had time and again when in presence of the Madonna. The colours, the poses, the vibrancy of the art always transfix him and leave him in awe of the artist's superb skills. Contemplating the Madonna is like letting oneself be enraptured by her beauty and her appeal, like being drawn in by the events portrayed, being lured in by a powerful siren of ages past. Her power is mesmerising. Yet it's not all Arthur is looking at right now. Not by far. He takes in Emrys, focusing on his features, which are intent in their study of the art work, so Arthur contemplates Emrys' enraptured face, the hand that bolsters his chin, his slightly bent head, the concentration frown lining his brow. And he likes what he sees. 

For once Arthur doesn't care about the painting, or the future fortunes of the Pendragon Estate, or making his father happy by proving him right. He's just glad he can share the Madonna with someone who grasps its meaning and history. That Emrys is here, so focused and charmed by a beauty Arthur has come to love and recognise, is electrifying.

“It's not a Leonardo,” Emrys says, interrupting Arthur's flow of thought.

“Shouldn't you test this further before you make a pronouncement like that?” Arthur makes a face. “X-ray it, carbon date it, analyse the pigment?”

“We'll do that, of course.” Emrys nods. “Look, I told you not to have your hopes up. The odds were low to start with. But I'll tell you why I said what I said. I have reasons”

Arthur invites Emrys to continue with a sign of his hand.

Emrys goes on. “See this angel here with the golden curls? I've seen his face before. At least six or seven times in my life. That's because it's a sample angel.”

Arthur isn't sure he's heard the term before and he has dabbled in art, though he is by no means an expert. “I beg your pardon?”

“That's just how I call them, not jargon.” Emrys gestures at the painting. “See, this is Renaissance. I say a 1473 dating sounds plausible. And it's surely Florentine and commissioned work as well. Back then there was a lot of competition as guilds were losing power and artists were contracted to fulfil their commissions quickly. Neri di Bicci managed to turn in altar piece in two months time. So, if you wanted to survive commercially in that world, you had to cut corners sometimes and painting the same angel face over and over again was a go-to technique, especially since even apprentices could work at it while the master busied himself with the main figures, like this beautiful Madonna.”

“So it's a Neri di Bicci?” Arthur's heart sinks. It's certainly less than he had hoped for. Visions of estate restorations and refurbishing vanish into thin air. 

Emrys must be sensing some of what Arthur is feeling, because he places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. “No, it's much better than that.” 

Arthur tries not to focus on the warmth that exudes from Emrys' palm, not to analyse his reaction to it too deeply. “You're keeping me in suspense now.”

“When you thought it was a Leonardo, you were too much of an optimist, but not too far off.” Emrys peers at the painting with clear satisfaction, then drops his hand from Arthur's shoulder. “That angel face is a Verrocchio workshop face, and those downturned hands are typical too. With some luck the master himself had a hand in that Madonna, and Leonardo himself was one of Verrocchio's apprentices.”

Suddenly, Arthur feels like smiling. He attempts to suppress the impulse; he has a notion that letting his joy show would not be seemly, that it would look greedy and grasping. Besides, he's not entirely sure Emrys' touch has nothing to do with the up-tick in his mood, and that, too, is not something he wants to be too open about. This is a professional setting and though Emrys oozes ease and charm, he has given no signal he likes Arthur in a romantic way. “So it's...”

“An Italian Renaissance masterpiece.” Emrys catches his gaze and his encouraging smile coaxes a similar one from Arthur.

Arthur can hardly think. He's not even even sure he can process all the information he's been given. His father has closely guarded his Madonna for decades; nobody but strict family has had a glimpse of her. So he has had little but his own knowledge to go on. Perhaps his father's conviction has contributed to persuading him of its correctness too. Perhaps not. Either way, he will have to make up his mind as to what to do with his new knowledge, with the possibilities it does open up, though he supposes this doesn't change things greatly.

“I know your father hinted to Gaius that he wanted an evaluation based on his intention to sell the painting, but you don't have to decide now. About anything.”

Arthur draws the protective curtains back over the Madonna, so that the light wont damage it. “If I don't sign any agreement you will have come for nothing.”

Emrys centres his gaze on Arthur when he answers. “I'm used to traipsing round the country for evaluations, and while we certainly would profit from selling a Verrocchio workshop painting, I'm not in the habit of pressuring our clients.” He shrugs. “It's not my work ethic; it's not something I would ever do.”

Arthur breathes out and his shoulders go down. Relief floods him and he counts himself lucky in having found someone as decent as Emrys. He knows just how many cut-throat dealers populate the art world. “Why don't we take a stroll in the park while I think about it?”

“Again, you don't have to get back to me right now,” Emrys says with devastating simplicity, with no hint of pressuring him into a commitment. “You can take as long as you like.”

“Still.” Arthur has never been particularly daring when it comes to personal matters, but there's something about today's events that pushes and prods him. He's going to change things, isn't he? So why not start now? “I'd like to have the pleasure of your company.”

Something changes in Emrys' expression; there's a spark to his gaze now, a brilliance that can't be reproduced, not even in a masterpiece making use of the most perfect ultramarine. A simmering tension crackles in the air between them, surrounds them. Emrys' lips curl up. “In that case, my lord.”

The park isn't what it must have been in its heyday. For one, it's lost acreage. For another, parts of it are not as full of lush rare flowers as it was when it had first been commissioned. But areas of it are quiet, majestic and secluded, green walkways whose state of overgrowth lends them an almost secluded, magical air. It smells like soil and lichen and the rain that moistened the earth earlier that morning. Birds sing in the trees and the noises of modernity from the adjacent road barely filter through.

Arthur proceeds at a slow pace suiting the quiet of the place. “I suppose Brown's 'garden-less', naturalistic landscaping style suits families who can't quite finance the upkeep of their greenery.”

“Capability Brown uh.” Emrys whistles. “The park is still magnificent, even if not up to its former glory.”

“You think I'm privileged,” Arthur says, gesticulating at his surroundings, “stately house, large park, an art collection everyone would be proud of, even if part of it was sold away.”

“I didn't say that.” Emrys laces his hands behind his back and looks at his shoes.

“Yet you probably think it and I acknowledge it.” Arthur's had ample time to ponder that question over the years. At forty, he's no wiser than he was at twenty, though perhaps he's learnt to be more thoughtful. “Even so, it doesn't make it easier, letting go.”

“As I said, You don't need to give up your Madonna if you don't want to.” Emrys brushes closer as they stroll on. “It's entirely up to you.”

“I'm afraid not.” Arthur's sigh loses itself to the gentle breeze. “We have enough to maintain the estate for a year or so, after that it will be impossible, not without running into debt.”

Emrys nods, but doesn't say anything.

Arthur scuffs at the gravel with his foot. “Oh I won't go broke, I know.” He's heard all this from friends before. “With the estate and the art sold, I'd still have more than the average British person, so it'll be all right.”

“It's still your home.” Emrys stops and looks around, inhales the fresh air. “Obviously, you love it.”

“Not so much for myself.” Arthur has gone head to head with his father for years and has thus not had the perfect childhood. The associations he has are not all positive. “But my mother adored this place. She was a Londoner born and bred.” Daughter of a palace staffer, but he keeps that to himself. “She liked the greenery and the seclusion and the fact that she could be entirely herself here.”

“I get why letting go is hard.” Emrys once again seeks physical contact with Arthur. “I have some experience with it.” His features cloud over, but he doesn't go into detail. “And I stand by what I said. You only give me a ring once you're sure.”

They reprise walking, fall into step by tacit silent agreement. “Well, there's only one rational, sensible option.” Arthur shouldn't be saying this. Shouldn't show that he's in need of funds anymore than he already has. But he's tired of playing the game, of lying in order to accrue the best terms, presenting a facade. While it's true that money begets money, he doesn't want to support that philosophy. Or lie. His father will blame him for this, but then again Arthur is not his father. His father has ideas that firmly belong in another world. “If I want to be smart about it, I'll sell the painting, which, however beautiful, is only an object, get the money and be careful with it.”

“It's certainly a solution, but it's up to you, of course.” Emrys chooses a path. It will take them back to the front of the house. “Essetir considers your property suitable for sale by auction and we can discuss the guide price. But the ultimate decision rests with you.”

“What is Gaius going to say about you not latching onto the opportunity to mediate on the Pendragons' behalf?” Arthur wants to understand what makes Emrys tick, why he's not as bargain- driven as many people in his profession. 

Merlin Emrys pushes his hands into his pockets and raises his shoulder. “Gaius is not acquisitive. I hope I'm not like that either and that's why we get on.”

Arthur steers Emrys onto the side of the path that doesn't lead to a dead end. “You're a business. And as such, shouldn't you be in it for the profit?”

“Well, yes,” Emrys says, one eyebrow moving upwards. “We don't claim to be a charity. But we're not leeches either. That's the philosophy. Gaius sincerely loves art. Above and beyond. He has extensive knowledge, he's like a walking encyclopedia really, and only wants like-minded people to be part of his business. Since it's smaller, it's feasible.”

All that Emrys is saying is revelatory and not just of Gaius' personality. “You're conspicuously into art as well. I think I can tell it's not just a job for you.”

“I'm grateful for the opportunity, rubbing shoulders with it all the time.” Emrys is musing aloud now. “I'm not a public school boy, so in a way I'm lucky. All of the beauty I get to look at, all of the objects I get to know about, touch, find a home for. Each of them has a history.” He lets his lips tip upwards as he reflects. “Your painting was somehow saved from Savonarola's wrath. The other day I evaluated items belonging to a French émigré fleeing the French Revolution, including a pin they were given by King Louis himself, and a few weeks ago I laid my hands on a bona fide Tudor trousseau. It's history displaying itself.”

“But those things,” Arthur can't refrain himself from saying, “will get sold.”

“I tell myself I'm helping the owners achieve what they want.” Emrys makes a moue. “I'm not saying that the art world is moral, far from it, but Gaius' perspective is uplifting. He has a code, and I appreciate working for him, because of that moral code. Without it, what would we be? Pedlars, I say.”

Arthur would be lying if he said he wasn't impressed by Emrys speech. It rings authentic, and it tells him something about the man he's speaking to. It draws him in, makes him want more. He wishes he and Emrys could talk art and ethics, but they've come to what Arthur assumes is the latter's car, a perfectly serviceable, though by no means new, Mini Hatch. 

Emrys stops short in front of it. It's as if he's surprised they ended up this side of the house, that their tour is done. He digests his surprise quickly, looks down, roots in his pockets, evidently for his car keys.

A sense of urgency pervades Arthur. He cannot let Emrys go just like that. He wants the conversation to continue, to deepen, so he can get more of Emrys' opinions and his company. His looks don't hurt either. There's a clarity to his gaze; a conviviality to his smile. If it wasn't awkward Arthur would ogle a little. But he can't detain the man, who's probably busy. And he can't just stare. But he has to do something. He cannot let this fizzle off. Chances are next time he'll get to discuss things with Gaius, the boss, and that's not the same thing.

He quickly searches his own pockets and luckily stumbles upon an object he hadn't hoped he had with him, his visiting card. He presses it into Emrys' palm. “I know Essetir has my business number, but this is my private one.” Arthur hopes he hasn't gone too far, misread the events leading up to this moment. Talk about awkward. He tries to salvage the situation in case he's misread their interactions. “I mean, obviously you have no obligation to contact me personally, shouldn't you wish to. I don't want to place an undue pressure on you. It's just that--”

“That wasn't a pass?” Emrys gaze bores into the card. He toys with it, before eventually peering at Arthur with an enquiring air. 

Warmth blooms about Arthur's face and neck. He's crossing fingers it doesn't show. What's best to say? If he's imposing himself upon Emrys, then that's wrong. However embarrassing, he'll have to apologise. Emrys's here professionally. On the other hand, if there's even the slightest chance Emrys would like to explore their connection, Arthur would be all for it. So he could lie and make everything proper and formal again. Or tell the truth and take its risks. It's not easy either way. “I--” He stammers, clears his thoughts, focuses only on the words he wants to say and not on Emrys' effervescent gaze. “I don't wish to offend you or come across as someone who'd like to foist themselves upon you.” 

Emrys mouth thins and that gives Arthur no clue as to how he should behave.

So Arthur soldiers on. “But I'd be equivocating, if I said I wasn't interested.”

Emrys brightens, his eyes tightening a little at the corners to form subtle lines that speak of merriment. “In that case--” He weighs the business card before putting it in a fold of his wallet, which he then pockets. “--I'll ring.”

Arthur feels a smile split his face. He sizes it down so it doesn't look like he's a goner. “Good.”

Emrys climbs into his car, lowers the window and, looking up at him, says, “Have some sparkling wine ready.”

The Mini Hatch is kicking up a cloud of dust as it swerves around Arthur on its way to the lower end of the drive and Arthur's already telling himself he'll buy a case of champagne, economies to save the estate be damned.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> While the information relating to the Verrocchio's workshop is correct, I invented the Pendragon Madonna. She's sadly not real!


End file.
